


A Christmas Fantasy

by Eilidhsd



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-04
Updated: 2015-12-04
Packaged: 2018-05-04 23:54:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5353109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eilidhsd/pseuds/Eilidhsd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Prompts:  Madness, sanity, Tchaikovsky's Nutcracker Suite</p>
    </blockquote>





	A Christmas Fantasy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Avery11](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Avery11/gifts).



> Prompts: Madness, sanity, Tchaikovsky's Nutcracker Suite

The fumes were imperceptible initially; too busy examining the cages of rats he was never aware of them. By the time he had noticed something was wrong, his airways were filled with the sharp fumes and his mind was already filling with terror. It was that fast. He tried to hold on to something logical – anything – but his conscious rational mind was disappearing. Rushes of adrenalin and terror overwhelmed his body, and seconds later he was huddled underneath a table, whimpering in abject terror on the stained linoleum.  
There was nothing else in his world, just the sheer physical waves of heart-pounding terror which drove out every coherent thought, every bit of consciousness of who he was and what he did. There was only the terror.  
Somewhere above the pounding of his own heart he could hear scrabbling, the scratching of little claws and he curled up into himself drowning in waves of hot sweat, hearing them come nearer. Then they were on him, little claws jagging his skin, tearing at him, sharp teeth nibbling his fingers.  
\- - - - - - -

"We found Mr Kuryakin alone in the laboratory," Napoleon Solo reported in to Uncle Headquarters. "It was deserted – just a few cages of rats left. There is no sign of Thrush now, but whatever booby trap they left for our agents has done major damage to him. Can you get medical out to collect him here?”

He put away the communicator, hitched the knees of his pants and squatted down beside his friend. Illya writhed further away from him, deeper under the table, still whimpering. Napoleon tried to take his wrist, to check his pulse and to offer some comfort, but Illya suddenly jammed his hands into his armpits, closing his body around them as if protecting them. Napoleon reached out to touch Illya's hair, but at the approach of his grey sleeve the other agent rolled frantically out of reach. 

Napoleon sat with Illya Kuryakin in the back of the anonymous sedan on the journey back to Uncle Headquarters, trying to talk to him of ordinary things. He seemed calm enough but never responded. 

Illya was aware that he had moved, that he was no longer on the grey linoleum, and that he was in motion. His vision was dark and dim and the human figures beside him had no interest for him. He was tense, almost rigid, with the effort of focussing on the floor terrified of anything he might see. His face creased with the concentration as he watched.  
Two miles into the journey the greyness started to gather itself, atoms forming into a little body with a pointed snout, peering out from under the front seat.  
Suddenly the car was filled with a keening wail, and Illya Kuryakin lunged across Napoleon, throwing himself against the locked door. The medics pulled over, then held him down to administer a sedative. 

\- - - - - -

“I've seen something like it before,” Napoleon Solo reported to Dr Browne later that night. “He was brought down by Bufferton's fear gas a couple of years ago, but he recovered from that pretty quickly. This does not seem to be lessening its grip on him at all.”  
“We'll keep him sedated tonight and see what is happening in the morning. But I wonder if the fact that he was hit by something similar before has exacerbated the effects of this latest thing. He does not seem to be processing anything. He is taking nothing in, and he seems to be subject to some form of hallucination. We'll see what the blood tests show tomorrow.”

\- - - - - -

Grey figures swam somewhere beyond the periphery of his vision. They were of no interest, no relevance to him. They were in a world which shimmered as though he were underwater. They barely registered with his consciousness and he paid them no attention, keeping his gaze fixed on the smooth grey metal floor. 

“Illya? Illya?” There was no response, no sign that he had even heard the words.  
“Illya?  
"Can he hear us?  
"Does he even know we are here?"   
"I don't know," the doctor shook his head. "I thought bringing him up to the conference room, to more familiar surroundings, might have triggered some memory, but it does not seem to have helped."   
"How long can this last?” Alexander Waverly sounded peevish, but the tone concealed the worry he felt for the young agent. “It has been three weeks now with no sign of any improvement. And you are telling us that his reactions to whatever delusions are haunting him are becoming more extreme?” 

"I don't know. I don't even know what we are dealing with, or whether the effect might be permanent. But whatever it was, it is clearly neurotoxic. It's giving him all manner of nightmares and he is showing obvious signs of psychosis.  
“But at least he is calmer now." 

 

The grey of the floor was changing, swiftly gathering itself into a small heap, a heap that metamorphosed gradually, the lump of clay being kneaded and tweaked by an invisible hand, to pinch out paws and pull out a tail. Its head lifted; its whiskers quivered; its nose twitched, and it sniffed the air. It was bigger now; it had doubled in size. Then it scurried across the floor, straight for him. 

 

A coarse wailing split the room, and IK began slapping at his own legs, trying to hit away something invisible to the others there. His hands flailed, windmilling rapidly as he tried to bat something away, aiming higher up his legs, and then shuddering backwards in the chair hitting at something unseen on his chest.

The rat was squatting on his chest, its claws digging into his shirtfront, brushing against his skin. Its weight made breathing difficult. Lumps of sweat scattered from the thick blond hair as he threw himself about, trying to shake it off, the sweat now mingling with a trailing urine stain on his shirt.

The chair crashed over as he leapt from it, calling incoherently in fear, then running at the grey metal wall, crashing his chest against it time after time. Napoleon Solo tried in vain to soothe him, and finally could only hold him as Dr Browne injected the sedative that gave his partner oblivion. 

White-wrapped orderlies answering the emergency alarm took the unconscious agent back down to medical, and Napoleon Solo slumped into one of the conference chairs, his eyes almost black in a face pale with worry. 

He sat in silence. He had seen similar things before, agents who had lost their minds, victims of drugs or nerve gases or deep hypnosis. He remembered his colleague ranting and shouting after Minus X stole the human part of him.

Surely Illya would not end up one of those mindless beings, that sharp intelligence and humanity gone, seething with emotions which had no relation to reality? He would be better dead, Napoleon thought. His bright, courageous, witty partner would prefer to die cleanly rather than end up as other agents had, frantic and raving, or shuffling about heavily sedated on grubby wards. 

_ _ _ _ _ _ 

“Hi, partner,” Napoleon nudged the hospital bed but there was no response. He pulled over a chair, a basic metal and plastic effort designed to be uncomfortable as a hint to visitors that they were not welcome.

The world outside was gearing up for Christmas: the New York stores bright with millions of colourful lights, the shop windows bursting with their festive displays, the thickening crowds of shoppers laden with packages pushing along packed sidewalks half blocked by scarlet charity Santas and carol singers, themselves drowned out by car horns; exhaust fumes and the smell of roasting chestnuts filling the streets. Down here there was only greyness and stillness. 

“Thought I would drop by and annoy you,” he tried to keep his tone light. “You're spending too much time down here. You're needed back upstairs.”  
Too impersonal. He tried again. “I need you back upstairs. The Old Man is looking for my last two mission reports...” his voice trailed off at the hopelessness of it all. He tried again; deep breath, “I missed you on that last mission.”

Napoleon Solo forced himself to relax, to speak normally, to keep a one-sided conversation going describing the mission and embroidering it with tales of the two young women who had complicated his life for the week he had been away. There was no response. His partner did not seem to have heard him. 

Illya Kuryakin's gaze flickered. There was something like an old shoelace, lying on his shoulder just at the edge of his vision. He struggled to focus, then jerked violently away from a creature that was now the size of a large cat, unrolling itself and strolling down his arm. It padded across his body, scraping its claws on the webbing restraint keeping him down, leaving a scent of urine which burned his nostrils, and he threw himself sideways trying to shake it off. 

Unable to rise far enough to manage that he writhed against the webbing, then let out a piercing cry as the creature sank its fangs into his finger. In one massive lunge he managed to pull his hand free, instantly tucking it under his opposite arm, clenching it tightly there to protect it and stop the pain.

“Illya, Illya, let me see; let me see,” There was no response, but Napoleon Solo waited until the sedation administered by the orderlies had begun to take effect, then gently took his partner's hand, still murmuring softly to him, and examined it.  
There was nothing to see, no mark or damage to any of the fingers.  
The hands of a fighter. Hands which were at home around a gun. Hands which could kill without a weapon. Fingers which were surprisingly nimble on a typewriter; and fingers which were wonderfully skilled on any number of musical instruments, skills revealed only when they were trotted out casually in the course of his work with Uncle, but skills which brought the pleasure of music into his personal life.  
The fingers now lay lifeless, with no intelligence to guide them. But as he studied the hand he held he thought for a moment, a fleeting moment, that there had been movement beneath his partner's eyelids and that his presence had registered. 

“There are other drugs I can try,” Dr Browne tried to give Napoleon some hope, but both knew he was running out of options. The weeks were going on with no change at all. 

\- - - - - -

The rat was much bigger now. It sat in the chair beside the bed, crossing its back legs and swinging a clawed foot casually. Illya Kuryakin tried to look away from it but could not help sneaking glances at it. The rat seemed perfectly at ease. He felt his skin crawling, his heart racing and the sweat breaking out automatically as he looked at it, sitting there sleek - and smug? The rat did look pleased with itself.

"I'm not even a rat." Illya Kuryakin found he was not surprised when it spoke. The creature was his worst nightmare and nothing it did could surprise him.

"I'm not a rat." The words were low with a definite sibilant tone. "I'm a moussss." It hissed the word angrily at him. “I'm a mousss.”  
“I am continent. I do not dribble urine every time I move. I'm a mousss. A mousss.”

The rat, or the mousss, just sat there staring at him as if it knew it could destroy him any time it chose to, and it had all the time in the world.

\- - - - - -

“You're a rat, Napoleon Solo!” But the words were spoken with good humour. Mandy had intercepted Napoleon just outside Illya Kuryakin's room, anxious to sort out arrangements for an intimate late dinner after the promised Christmas ballet.  
“I am sorry, Mandy. You know I can't just now.” Napoleon shrugged in the direction of the door and the patient beyond.  
“Does he know you are there?” Napoleon shrugged again in answer, then delved into his jacket pocket and produced a thick envelope.  
“Will you at least use the tickets? It would be a pity to waste them, and you must have plenty of people who would be happy to accompany you. What about your mother? Or your sister?” he suggested with a smile.  
“Or Arthur from Section 3?” she mused, tapping the envelope against her lips, teasing him gently. At least it had been a genuine date. He must have gone to a lot of trouble and expense to secure those tickets for the Nutcracker's New York run. It was the hottest ticket in town this Christmas, and the thought mollified her. “No, I'll ask Sadie from the typing pool.” 

At the door Napoleon paused. The original plan months ago had been for a double-date. He knew how much Illya liked Tchaikovsky. The planning had been fun, as they had run through a list of women Illya might take with him; but the plan had fallen apart when his cautious partner had discovered the cost of the tickets. Napoleon had no qualms about wooing a lady with expensive tickets; the Russian had baulked at such an exorbitant price for a casual date. 

For a second Napoleon had a vision of what might have been: the two of them in their tuxedos squiring – probably – two of Uncle's best-looking girls into the crowded theatre, all the perfumed women dressed in their finest, the colourful silks of evening gowns and soft furs for a night like this, sinking into the plush red velvet seats above the orchestra to watch the ballet. The contrast with reality was stark. Now they would both miss it. He could not have faced the gaiety with his partner lying here like this. He pushed open the door to the windowless room to sit with his partner. 

There was a grey form in the chair again, something solid and dark topped, out of focus, but somehow bringing reassurance.  
“I'm trying a new anti-psychotic,” Dr Browne was behind Napoleon. “It will take a few days to get into his system, then we can only wait to see what happens.“

\- - - - - -

It was the following Monday before Napoleon was back in Uncle Headquarters and evening before he could head down to medical to see his partner.  
“Napoleon!!” Mandy had obviously been waiting for him and accosted him just as he entered the lift. “I've a present for you.” She was delving into her purse, and she produced a small tape recorder looking for all the world like a pack of cigarettes.  
“I couldn't let you miss all the ballet,” she giggled.  
“You taped it?” Napoleon was incredulous.  
“I invited Trudie from Research and Development, on condition that she helped. Oh, don't worry – this is one of last year's products and surplus to requirements now. Although we will return it,” she added hastily.  
Napoleon chuckled at the thought of the two girls sitting in the best seats in the house, with the tape recorder whirring quietly on Mandy's lap.  
“That was kind of you,” he reached out to touch her shining dark hair. “And we will have that dinner soon, I promise.”

In Illya's room everything was calm. His partner lay unmoving on the narrow bed and gave no sign that he was aware of his arrival. The webbing restraint had been removed, which seemed a good sign. Napoleon pulled over the armchair which had replaced the bucket seat, turned down the harsh fluorescent lights and settled down for the evening, talking quietly through the latest mission, unexpected – and monotonous - protection duty for a visiting head of state from a tiny war-racked nation. Was there any reaction? 

Finally he ran out of words. He was tired, wearied by the constant vigilance of the mission and the lack of progress in his partner. The little recorder was in his pocket, and he pulled it out and switched it on. The quality was excellent – the recorder was designed to pick up a whisper at 80 feet and play it back in crystal clear quality – and the orchestra played in its full glory in the tiny space.

Tchaikovsky's delicate opening notes danced their way through the sterile room and Napoleon relaxed in the half light and let his eyes close, sinking deeper into the armchair. The music enfolded both men, filling the room and swirling round the one lying still, stroking his cheeks and lightly teasing his eyelids. 

The fanfare of horns and trumpets heralding the March washed over the agents in the dim space, then the strings took up the melody, spinning it through the barren silence of the little room, the soft footsteps of the unseen dancers from the family celebrations on stage providing a counterpoint. The soaring strings and the crash of cymbals filled the air surrounding them and Napoleon slid easily into sleep. But as the fanfare was repeated and the brass grew heavier and more insistent, the fingers of the figure on the bed twitched and he moved restlessly as if the sound was tugging at him.

The music flowed on and through him, then the blue eyes opened and stared at a grey figure, the height of a human being, taking shape behind the chair. The figure padded silently, with only the faintest rasp of claws on the grey flooring, moving to stand beside the bed looking down on him for long minutes.

He was tired being terrified. He was beyond the exhaustion of it now. There was no fear left in him. He stared back at the rat; “Mousss” it corrected, aware of his thought. “I'm the mousss king.”

The creature leered over him and Illya shrank back into the pillow as the yellowed fangs and bad breath enveloped his face. But there was another figure beyond its shoulder. The scene was not sharp – there were still underwater ripples between him and the world – but he knew it was Napoleon, and the creature jerked as his partner delivered a blow to the side of its head.  
The rat turned slowly to confront Napoleon and Illya saw without surprise that a tinsel crown was balanced shakily on the creature's head, and that both it and Napoleon had swords.

There were drumbeats and bugle calls, trumpets blared, and light as bright as a spotlight shone on the pair challenging each other. Round and round they almost danced, both much of the same height, stabbing at each other with their swords, feet – rodent and human - moving nimbly to avoid danger and stepping back in to menace each other.

Round and round they went as the minutes passed, and Illya found his vision clearing and colours appearing again in the world, then he gasped as Napoleon stumbled and the rodent reared up high and prepared to bring down its sword. He grabbed his pillow and lobbed it at the rodent's back, catching it full on, hard enough to unbalance a creature designed to hold close to the earth on four feet rather than tottering up on two. 

Napoleon was quick to take advantage, and he regained his feet and plunged his sword into the staggering rodent, which collapsed on to the floor and lay still.

Caught by the excitement and the wave of relief – the first emotion other than fear that he had felt since that day in the abandoned laboratory - Illya lay back and closed his eyes. The music continued to wash over him. Without the fear his mind was clearing and his concentration returning. He was aware of who he was and the fact that he was in medical. He sat up carefully, breathing deeply, his heart rate slowing from its panic-filled highs and steadying.

“Napoleon.” His voice was strange. It had been many weeks since he had formed coherent words with it. “Napoleon!” In the dimmed light Napoleon was fast asleep in the armchair. “Napoleon!!” 

Napoleon awoke to find his partner sitting on the bed staring at him. The blue eyes were clear and focused on him.  
“You're looking better, partner,” he said.

“I think I'm fine.” Illya responded tentatively. “My vision is clear and I know this place. And you. There was a lot of confusion, but it is going now. I think everything will be OK now you have killed it.”  
“Killed it?” asked Napoleon. “Killed what?”  
Illya nodded to the floor at the side of the armchair – then hurriedly checked himself. There was no giant rat or regal mousss sprawled there. The floor was empty apart from a pillow.

“Killed the nightmare.” He was sharp. His wits were back and it would never do to let Napoleon know how that particular nightmare had ended. Already the vision of his partner in that deadly dance with the giant rat – or mouse or whatever it was - was starting to fade as dreams do in daylight. It was something he would maybe half remember one day, and smile at the thought. Now he had a lot of catching up to do – but there was no rush, no immediate need to summon medical staff or alert Mr Waverly to his return. The pair sat in companionable silence while the orchestra played on.

**Author's Note:**

> I've wandered slightly from the Suite itself, to a bit more of the Nutcracker. 
> 
> And many, many, thanks to Elmey for her ideas and guidance.


End file.
